No longer pretending this isn't about me and my unique snowflake take on things.
“The Red Book” in my mind is the John Cheever book of short stories. It’s amazing, cover to cover. I know I’m not going out on any limbs here. I just got really excited when I discovered that The Swimmer existed in the Stuff I Can Listen to in the Car Universe compliments of the New Yorker’s fiction podcast.
If you’re unfamiliar with the New Yorker’s fiction podcast the format is an author from the recent pages of the magazine discusses and reads a story from the historical pages on the magazine. Usually it works pretty well. In this case I think the value is primarily in the read story itself, but it varies.
“The Red Book” in my mind is the John Cheever book of short stories. It’s amazing, cover to cover. I know I’m not going out on any limbs here. I just got really excited when I discovered that The Swimmer existed in the Stuff I Can Listen to in the Car Universe compliments of the New Yorker’s fiction podcast.
If you’re unfamiliar with the New Yorker’s fiction podcast the format is an author from the recent pages of the magazine discusses and reads a story from the historical pages on the magazine. Usually it works pretty well. In this case I think the value is primarily in the read story itself, but it varies.
From somewhere in the depths of his waders Norb produced a thin rope with a fist-sized bundle of barbed hooks on the end of it.
“Stand here,” he said to me while he continued walking.
“Where are you going?” I hoped that none of the rising fear I felt escaped into my voice.
“Just a little ways farther. This is a two man job. Do you think you can bring up any bile?”
“What?”
“Can you throw up?”
“What?” I asked again.
“Never mind,” he said, and then did it himself. I could barely make him out even though he was only ten feet or so away, but the sound of his dry heaves echoed off the water and the ceiling. It was all I could do at that point to refrain from opening a dry hole around myself, sending up a brilliant light source and breaking for whatever exit my meager magic would be able to find, but the fire dragon, my Aunt Maggo, and the lost Lasisit came together in my mind to anchor me in place. Or maybe I was just paralyzed with fear. I let it manifest in a short burst of urine into the waders and waited for whatever was going to come next.
I did the double tonight. I closed myself in a room and I played the guitar. I can almost put that in quotes, like “played the guitar,” because I’m not particularly skillful. I might even be notably unskillful. I hope not—my poor wife!— but it’s possible. I was a notably unskillful singer for a while. But I have fun. I have an inordinate amount of fun. If I had acquired a guitar much, much earlier in life, or if I had acquired the willingness to be loud and bad much, much earlier in life, I’d probably be good by now. I could have had a life with the guitar; playing in tiny bands and rocking a bald-on-top-Axle-Rose-in-the-back mullet and putting my cards out at the local guitar store for instruction. Didn’t happen. Won’t happen. Could have happened. Anyway, I love making noise with it.
And then I wrote for a while. I love writing after playing the guitar. I don’t know if I should try to spend some time thinking about what aspect of playing the guitar primes me for writing, but I really think the two go hand in hand. I don’t think I have missed my chance at a life writing, and at some mythical date in the future when I wake up and write everyday I like to think I’ll be loud and bad with an electric guitar before I sit down at the keyboard.
I interviewed for something that seemed promising lately, but I didn’t get it. At least, I’m assuming I didn’t get it. They never got back to me one way or the other. Maybe they cut me an offer letter that’s just sitting on someone’s desk under a CDW catalog. The end result is that I still work where I work and not at this new place.
My wife also interviewed for something that seemed promising lately, and she also didn’t get it. That one was really weird. They asked her to commit to the position in such a way that seemed to indicate that she had already gotten the job, and the “interviews” she was doing were more like meet and greets with other members of the department; a formality if anything. But they sent some email that said “we really liked you BUT we hired someone else.” They really capitalized the “but” like that. Nice tone, lady.
So, the hunt continues.
This is me, holding my forehead, pinching the bridge of my nose, doing other high stress things with my hands and my face.
For some reason I imagine them erect when they’re taking in their little blood meal.
Everything that can be washed is being washed; hot water, hotter air dry. Anything that can’t be washed is being thrown out. Anything that can’t be either washed or thrown out is in the freezer. Anything that can’t be washed, thrown out or frozen is being berated by me until such time I break down and start pleading with it. ”Look, object in my life—guitar, say—don’t make me chose between having you in my life and having erect little bugs sucking my blood at night. “
A co-worker and friend and his girlfriend came and stayed with us last night on their way to Ann Arbor where they’ll be going to school. Should I not have mentioned how we regret moving out of Seattle? Should I have kept to myself our desire to undo the whole moving across the country thing? Yeah, perhaps. You know, honesty, though.
It was great to see him. The thing that always stood between us—the fact that we basically had the same job and he carried my ass every day while I dicked around—was no longer standing between us. It was likely more my hang up than his, but, still, it existed and now that neither of us works there any longer it’s removed and we can finally be friends. Real friends. Unfortunately there’s no one to carry me at my current job. It’s just me, naked and alone, and it sucks but eventually it’ll get sorted out. I’ll leave, I mean. And I’ll go somewhere else where someone else can carry me until such time as I no longer feel obligated to do work I’m not particularly good at and don’t particularly like. And maybe one day I can be friends with the next guy who carries me through midnight outages and hairy on-the-fly migrations. Anyone need a sys admin?
